The Unoccupied Room
by NeverWhelmed
Summary: Post Reichenbach JohnLock fiction with prediction of how Sherlock survived and what might happen in the third series of the BBC Sherlock. Rated M for safety. Enjoy. :)
1. The Reichenbach Fall

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or the content of this chapter. This is simply a retelling of the episode _The Reichenbach Fall_._

_The chapters following this will be based on the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle version of events, and is merely a prediction. Nothing says I'm right, nothing says I'm wrong, so don't hold me to it when we finally get the next series and everything I made up is complete and total lies._

* * *

Blood poured between thick, black curls, staining the pavement a strange ruby colour. The pool spread slowly, trickling away from their transport system and crawling along the pavement, away from the body that lay there, face down, on the pavement.

John had watched in terror as Sherlock hurled himself off the building, falling with all the grace of a baby bird which was yet to learn the art of flight. The ending would be the same, too, he realised. An impact with the cold, hard ground. That didn't stop John hoping that by some miracle - one of Sherlock's many miracles - that he would survive. The sickening crunch of his ribs on pavement had killed that hope, and his friend, by the sounds.

A crowd had gathered in seconds and an Ambulance was already on the scene as if anticipating that something would happen. John suspected that the attempted suicide of the greatest mind of the century would not have been high on their list of likely occurrences, but this didn't stop them joining the crowd also and further hampering his progress.

He reached the crowd, pushing his way through with all the urgency of a mother trying to protect her child, words tumbling from his mouth. Something about him being a friend of the detective and a doctor too, if he recalled correctly, but somehow, he doubted that it was as correct as it would have been had Sherlock heard it.

The body was face down, already being examined, and all John could get at was a stray arm, fingers limp and slightly curled. He grabbed at it – it was still warm – and checked the wrist for a pulse. Nothing. There wasn't one. Sherlock... was dead.

It had taken only a few days for his funeral to be arranged. It had been a quiet affair, with only friends and family allowed, and after the publications in the newspapers on the day of his death, that equated to John, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft, who had all been unable to tear their eyes from the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. They all blamed themselves somehow - Mrs. Hudson wondered if it had been her nagging about the body parts in the fridge, Mycroft if Sherlock had found out the source of the intelligence and seen no reason to continue if he couldn't even trust his brother, Lestrade whether Sherlock had felt as if no one trusted him anymore - but John was the only one whose face remained set in stone. He had not flinched throughout the entire event.

Everyone cleared as soon as they were able, wanting to be away from what they feared was their fault, leaving only Watson and Mrs. Hudson behind, and she too left after attempting to cheer John up.

He simply stood there, staring blankly at the grave that sat just outside of the shade of a large tree and wondered if Sherlock knew what had happened. If somewhere, somehow, his friend knew that the people he held closest really did care.

"Uhm... hmm...You- you told me once, that you weren't a hero." Watson choked as his eyes scanned the surface of his friend's grave. "Uhm, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this, you were... The best man... Uh... The most human... Human being that I've ever know and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, uh, so..." John rolled the words he had said around his mouth, trying to think of some ingenious way to finish – a finale worthy of the late great Sherlock Holmes. "There." But he couldn't. There was no way to be ingenious about the passing of Holmes, no matter how much he would have wanted it. No one John knew was as intelligent as him.

After a quick look around, the doctor approached the headstone of black, reflective stone and touched the top lightly, silently reading over the word on it once more, still trying to believe it, and still failing miserably. "I was... So alone... And I owe you so much." He could feel his eyes prickle – a sure sign of tears to come – and withdrew his hand, walking away from the stone with long, deliberate strides.

He halted, and turned. "Hopefully there's just one thing- just one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me." The words weren't coming as easily as he had hoped, true as they were. "Don't... be... dead. Would you do that? Just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." He motioned towards the upturned earth that marked the final resting place of his best friend, and began breathing deeply. It was all he knew to do, all he could do to stop the tears spilling over and drenching his cheeks with their salty trails. But he couldn't stop them. They spilled, and his hand automatically covered his face. Sherlock had always found crying to be a rather peculiar action, and had asked that John stop it when he broke up with his many girlfriends. He had only managed it with the last few. The few that meant the least to him.

He wiped his eyes and stood tall once more, regretting what he had done. Crying in front of the grave of the man who had banned it in their home. It was physically painful for him to do, but he just hadn't been able to stop himself. He walked away for the second time, this time getting far further from the stone. He was en route to the exit of the cemetery. He needed to be alone.

Watson was not alone, though. The very man those words had been meant for watched as the doctor walked away from his grave – the grave that didn't hold the body it said it did – and the one who watched him smiled slightly. It was nice to be missed, despite his last words, but he could not show himself yet. There was something that needed to be done. Something important. And he would need to be thought of as dead to investigate it properly. Moriarty may have died, but his crime consulting agency most certainly had not.


	2. Coughs and Colds

_From this point on, it's entirely a modernised version of the Conan Doyle stuff. I'll be trying my best to keep them in character, but if you think they're getting too OOC, just tell me. :)_

* * *

Three years had passed. Three, torturously long and lonely years. The papers had long forgotten about Sherlock, the so-called fraudulent detective who caused crimes only to astonish the public by solving them, and had since moved on to far more pressing matters, such as which celebrity had been caught cheating or which infamous politician had taken a turn for the worst. Much, much more riveting that the simple matter of Sherlock's death by any man's standards. Not.

John Watson certainly didn't think so, anyway. The years had not treated him well. The laughter lines he had developed in his short time with Sherlock were all but non-existent, now accompanied not by his smile but by the worry lines that had etched themselves into his forehead. They looked like waves of peach. They were entirely out-of-place. They shouldn't be seen on his face – not John Watson – but there they were, regardless. A friend's death does these things to a man.

But unlike most men, John had another reason other than the mere absence to be upset. When he saw Sherlock hit the ground with that awful, awful thud, something inside him had died. He would not state that it was a broken heart, simply because he was a physician and knew this to be a physical impossibility, but he knew this was tantamount to such a thing. It did hurt, after all, and only more-so when he was in 221b. That was the exact reason he had stopped renting it, gotten a full-time job, and set up his own live-in surgery only the previous year. To get away from those memories.

On a day early in March, when the winter winds had refused to lose their grip on the already depressing British weather, Dr. Watson had felt particularly down. He had just broken up with yet another girlfriend after he had been caught attempting to build a mind palace. She had though he had gone mad, and so left, the slap of the door causing the construct to fall around his head – metaphorically speaking, of course, and it had even snowed the previous night. Snow, in March! It was ludicrous! But John had no time for such things. He had patients to see, and... and... and... patients to see. He didn't have time to look at the damned snow!

The door of his surgery burst open, a stone faced Watson walking speedily through the portal and relying on the secretary to close it behind him. "Bad morning, Doctor?" He grunted in reply, and hurried through to his consulting room, sitting in the brown leather swivel chair that sat behind the mahogany desk. There was a window that looked out on to the street to his left, and a bookcase littered with medical journals to his right. On top of the desk sat a laptop – already connected to the mains power supply, to prevent it's poor changing capacity from losing all of his patient's records – and a Parker pen with the end chewed to oblivion lay where his hand always fell when he was stressed. The rest of the room was bare, for the simple reason of there was nothing else that he absolutely needed out. Everything else was hidden in the drawers of his desk.

He sighed deeply, and called for the first patient. _Here comes the monotony. _Hew thought to himself, faking a smile to greet Miss Scarlet. He was immediately reminded of the game of Cluedo he had played with Sherlock, and the familiar pang of pain shot though his chest. _Yes, here comes the monotony._

By midday, John was sick of patients, as he always was by that time. Every time one walked in with such a mundane problem as a cough, or a cold, or an ear infection, Watson couldn't help but think bitterly, _At least you're alive. Have air in your lungs. Can have a life. What about the man you all forgot about? The one that none of you believed, despite the fact that he solved so many cases for you? What does he have? A pretty headstone, that's what._

His tired eyes fixed themselves on the pavement outside his office, the cold grey reminding him of the impact that haunted his sleep, but there was not just that cold grey any more. There was a car. A car was parked outside. An unmarked police car – he could tell. Not by some miracle of deduction, he still wasn't very brilliant at that, it was the fact that Lestrade was getting out of it and heading for the door to the surgery that told him the vehicle belonged to the police.

Lestrade was in the room only a few seconds later, relaxing in the chair on the other side of John's desk. "What is it Lestrade? I don't work with you any more. Our only connection was- … Him." John's told was flat. He showed no emotion. No anger, no sadness. No happiness, no joy.

"Yes, that was the case... but recently, we had a case that no one can quite get their head around. I was wondering... If you would take a quick look?" John clasped and unclasped his hands on the desk, forgoing his normal pen-chewing as he didn't want Lestrade thinking ill of him in any way. The bad habits had to stop.

"Sure. I'll take a look No promises though. What's the address?"  
"I'll take you there." John nodded, and rose from his seat, then followed Lestrade out of the surgery – it was fine, he had no more patients after midday – and climbed into the passenger side of the car.

John recognised the house immediately. It was the Adair family home. The Adair's ran a rather profitable casino chain, and the son was known to be rather good at poker, for whatever reason. "What on Earth am I doing here, Lestrade? I thought you wanted me to look at a corpse, not question people-"  
"We do. Ronald Adair, or Ronnie, to his friends, was found dead this morning. We want you to tell us how it happened."

* * *

_Please R&R, I'd love to hear feedback on this. What do you like? What do you dislike? Please tell me, so I can try to get rid of the stuff you dislike and do more of what you like. :)_


	3. Suspicious Circumstances

I'm sorry if this seems rushed, it's just that I wanted to get this finished for today and I couldn't do any yesterday because I was at a concert. I hope you enjoy!

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Watson sat in the police car, scanning the outside scene in slight shock. The Adair family home was pretty much impenetrable, with its undecorated, smooth walls and security at every door, but somehow, someone had gotten in. Or at least, Watson assumed someone had gotten in... He shook it off, and climbed out of the car, straightening his clothes with a few brushes. Lestrade climbed out the other side, and gestured for Watson to follow.

The walls were made from a sandy coloured block – strange for London – and none of them seemed as if they could be climbed without some sort of apparatus, which would no doubt leave a mark. The only person Watson thought it could have been was someone already in the house, but this wasn't his job, he reminded himself. The who-dun-it side was for the cops, not the doctor giving an opinion on how the man died. So, he followed Lestrade into the house.

The floors were covered with thick, red, fitted carpets that looked like they were cleaned often. There was little furniture, but the few pieces that were there looked to be made of wood, or at least be covered in a layer of wood, and the walls were all painted cream in the main hallway. There were doors going off at set intervals from the hallway too, all of which were, again, wooden, and John couldn't help but let the ever-curious part of his mind wonder, _Where do they all go?_ Again, he shook it off, though, and Lestrade took him through the hallway, into a central room and then up the staircase to the first floor.

The ground floor had high ceilings, which of course meant that the first floor was higher than would have been normal, so when Watson walked past a window and saw just how high they were, he was almost positive that there was no way someone could have climbed up here unaided. Lestrade opened the door to a study, and ushered John inside. "This is the scene." John nodded, and made his way inside.

Money was still on the desk in front of the window. This wasn't a robbery. No note, and no weapon. This wasn't a suicide. No way up... This couldn't be a murder, either. So what was it? "Was there a weapon found?" He didn't know why he had asked this question. He already knew the answer.  
"No, that's why it seemed so..."  
"Suspicious?" Lestrade nodded in affirmation of his suggestion.

Watson moved quickly to the body's side, the smart suit that clothed it telling him that the man had been at an event where appearance mattered. "Where was he just before he was found like this?" Watson found himself mumbling.  
"He was playing poker with some friends of the family," Lestrade replied as he handed the doctor a pair of disposable gloves, silently giving permission for closer inspection. Watson took them, stretched them hastily over his hands and turned the body over, revealing the entry wound. It wasn't particularly large, but he could see why the man was dead. The wound seemed to go straight through the left side of his temple, through the brain, and, now that he knew he was looking for it, the exit wound he found told him that the bullet had travelled diagonally and left through the right side of the back of his skull.  
"He would have died instantly..." His eyes scanned the body one, last time, before he stood up and announced, "It was probably a .45 revolver, or something that has the same calibre, but I don't understand how..."  
"You don't have to," Lestrade said flippantly. "That's our job. Don't forget to be at the Coroner's Court to tell him how Ronald died."

With a nod, John left. He really couldn't do much without Sherlock by his side...

The following day, he was summoned to the court. "So, Doctor, please explain to us how Mr. Adair died." The judge, a portly old man with only the obligatory wig as any form of hair asked, motioning with his hand for John to begin. He nodded, tapped his papers against the stand and began. "The bullet entered through the left side of Mr. Adair's skull, shattered the bone with a radius of just under a centimetre, then travelled through Mr. Adair's brain, exiting at the opposite side of his skull. I believe the weapon used was a .45 revolver-"  
"Let us not speculate, Doctor. It is not your place to make assumptions on the weapon, that is the job of the police," the judge interjected, a stern look on his face, revealing deep wrinkles all over his face. Watson was taken aback. He had become so used to voicing any opinion while with Sherlock or Lestrade that he had forgotten exactly how to present the facts and only those in coroner's court.  
"Of course. I do apologise..."

Once Watson's part was finished, he took a place in the gallery to watch the remainder, to kill time if nothing else. Anything to break the cycle of boredom and over protective mothers suspecting their children were dying from an illness they had self-diagnosed on the internet was welcome. A man named Colonel Moran was the next to be called upon, though his place was to give a character witness. Apparently, he too had served in Afghanistan, just like John, and was also good friends with the Adair family. The judge treated him with far more respect than he had Watson, offering him every courtesy and not once interrupting or chastising him. Had he not been so desperate to destroy his routine, Watson may have walked out of the court long before it was over, but it was better to suffer the pompous judge than re-enter his surgery at this time of day.

The hearing eventually ended just after one o'clock, which meant that Watson's surgery was closed for the day. He gathered his things, stuffed his papers into his messenger bag then swung it over his head, let it rest on his shoulder and walked hastily out of the courtroom.

His feet tapped against the steps, but he didn't hear them. He had receded into his bubble, where the only thing he had to worry about was his vital signs. It didn't matter what happened around him, as long as he was still breathing. However, it was only because of this state, this bubble he had grown accustomed to retreating to when ever he felt he needed solace, that he knocked the man who had been sat on the steps over. "Sorry!" John apologised, not able to get his words out quick enough. The man had dropped a stack of books bound together by a belt – something that John found rather curious – and was trying to pick them up, which made it hard to see his face thanks to the peak of his flat cap.  
"Get lost," the man snapped, snatching the books from the floor and hugging them close to his chest, keeping his head bent so that Watson couldn't see his face.

Thinking better of trying to get some sort of recognition for the apology, John hurried back to his surgery, where he collapsed in the swivel chair, leaning as far back as he could. He studied the blank ceiling, wondering if maybe, just maybe, Ronald Adair's death would have intrigued Sherlock. _What does it matter if he would have been interested?_ He eventually told himself. Sherlock was dead, and he needed to deal with that.

Seconds later, the secretary burst through his door, and began to babble. "Doctor, there's a man in the surgery – says he wants to speak with you. I told him you weren't seeing patients right now, but he didn't listen-" She blabbed, waving her hand at the still open door. Without a second of delay, the man he had knocked over hobbled through the door, still clutching his books. Watson dismissed the secretary, and told her to shut the door behind her. She did as he asked.

"Would you like to take a seat?" Watson asked. The man shook his head, and John noted that he still had his head bowed, and the cap still obscured his face. Hesitantly, he stood, trying to make the man feel more at ease. "So, why exactly are you here?" He asked.  
"I was wondering if you would like to buy some books," the man retorted, lifting one of the piles slightly. John frowned, and turned to study his rather sad-looking bookcase.  
"I suppose this thing does look a little bare... but I wouldn't want to clog it with fiction," he mused, allowing himself a small laugh before turning back around to face the man.

Only, he wasn't the same man any more. The cap and books had been discarded, and so had the blazer he wore. "You wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes, would you John? Only, I haven't had any in a while." Sharp cheek bones. Dark, curly hair. Grey-blue eyes.

Stood before him was non-other than the man he had believed dead all this time. Sherlock Holmes. _The_ Sherlock Holmes.

The world went black. Doctor John Watson had fainted.

* * *

And so, we have our favorite detective back! :D And John had his favorite person back. Naww, isn't it lovely? Don't forget to R&R, I love to hear your feedback!


	4. The Return Of Criticism

Watson groaned, shifting on to one side and rubbing his temple with his free hand. He knew that illusions weren't uncommon when a close friend was lost, but he thought they had stopped last year. _Apparently not,_ he thought to himself. That was probably the worst one, though. It had never been so vivid, quite so real. "Shit..." he moaned, sitting up.  
"My, my, Watson... Your language has certainly gone downhill since my _death_." John's eyes snapped open. He faced the bookcase, but the reflective glass surface of one of the cabinets showed the silhouette of a man against the glare from the window. Which, strangely enough, had the blinds covering it. That hadn't been the case before he blacked out...

He turned to look at the figure, unsure whether he should simply assume it was another illusion or to believe that it was Sherlock. As their eyes met, he knew it could be no one else. "Sherlock... But... You... The fall... You couldn't have survived it- it was too high!" He protested, tripping over his words and looking desperately for some sign that Sherlock wasn't actually there. For the first time, he didn't want his friend to be alive. He had only just accepted he was gone for good.  
"It seems not, my dear Watson, for I am here, waiting for you to gather your senses," Sherlock retorted, a small smirk dancing on to his face. Watson's weary eyes fought to stay open, but it was hard considering the strain he had been under recently.  
"Why are you here?"  
"I need your help."

Sherlock advanced on him, taking his hand from its place on the desk and dragging it towards him. Watson stood, realising he had been manoeuvred onto his now empty desk, and tested his balance. It wasn't fantastic, but it would suffice for a conversation. "Uhm, Sherlock..." he began.  
"What?"  
"Hand." The genius' eyes darted to their still linked hands, and quickly snatched his away.  
"Apologies, John." Sherlock coughed nervously, then returned his attention to his friend. "You look as if you want to ask me something." John's mouth went dry, so all he could do was open and close his mouth, like a fish. Sherlock cocked a brow, and let out the smallest laugh – Watson would have missed it had he not been staring so intently at Holmes' face – before leading the way out of the surgery. "We have places to go, things to see and people to talk to, Watson. We can't waste time with imitations of aquatic lifeforms," Sherlock stated, spurring Watson into action.  
"Where are we going?"  
"Home, of course."

Sherlock trotted out of the surgery with a foreign spring to his step, and Watson ambled lamely behind him. His feet refused to co-operate with his mind simply because his mind had so much it deemed more important. First on the list was what he had missed about the fall, and how his friend had survived. He had watched as he jumped, so there could have been no confusion about who landed. There was blood, so there was no way he was simply uninjured. Nothing made sense any more, and John could feel insanity grasping at the frayed edges of his mind. The only thing that brought him back to his sense was a buzz in his pocket.

**What's the matter with you? You're never normally ****THIS distracted.  
-SH**

John frowned and shot a disgruntled look at Holmes, who was still walking just ahead of him. He had texted him with less than a foot between them. "Nothing's _the matter with me_, Holmes, I was just thinking!" He snarled.  
"Well, that does make a change." Holmes' snide comment made Watson's blood boil... for a time, at least. He soon brought himself back to his sense, and remembered that there had been times he had wished for this to happen.

Now that he was no longer distraught or enraged, he realised the street was lit only by the street lights of barely satisfactory brightness. He must have been out for hours.  
"Sherlock, what time is it?"  
"Irrelevant," he retorted. Watson sighed and sped up to walk by his side, but just as he caught up, Sherlock stopped abruptly, meaning that he walked into his shoulder. Sherlock shook his head, fished in his pocket for a key and then opened the door to 221b.

The duo were in their old room in no time, Watson feeling awkward about the whole thing and Sherlock looking around the room as if it were some sort of alien space ship that needed to be analysed in all possible detail. "Nothing's been moved... Other than your things," he commented, spinning to look at Watson directly. His eyes had that dangerous shine – like he knew something Watson didn't. Which was more than likely, John eventually concluded.  
"What?"  
"Did you and Mrs. Hudson... do this on purpose?" He pried. John shook his head.  
"It was more that... We couldn't bare to be in here. Neither of us wanted to move your things, because everything made us think of when you were alive. Which reminds me, your Violin might be out of tune. Well, a lot out of tune."

Sherlock too one, last glance over the room before descending the stairs, locking the door and returning to the living room. "Good night, Watson. Tomorrow, we go back to the Adair estate. There's something I want to look at."  
"Wait, what do you know about the-" The door to Sherlock's room slammed closed, and Watson was left alone in the room of memories once more.

* * *

Well, I've already been proven wrong because **POSSIBLE SPOILER DON'T WANT, DON'T READ THE REST OF THE SENTENCE** apparently, no fainting from Watson when they meet again.

**_In other news,_** this will probably only be a few more chapters, because quite frankly I can't get much out of the story line. I know, silly of me, but I don't like writing something that isn't accurate to the official story line to date. I have a list of fandoms on my profile, so if you would like to check if there is one you would like me to write a fanfiction for, go ahead and look and drop a message by. :) I'm adding to the list as I think of fandoms I'm a part of, so if the one you want isn't there, it might be that I've just forgotten about it, or I'm yet to discover it.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please R&R so I know what you think!

P.S: Do you want a lemon in this? Either way, leave a comment, and I'll see what I can do. :)


	5. I Spy What You Don't

I was going to try to finish this yesterday, but I was at a school competition that didn't end until quite late, so I was quite tired. Either way, I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

* * *

The following day, Sherlock woke Watson up earlier that he had been in the last three years. It was strange, to be woken so early after so long, but it was also nice, because of who was doing it. It was good for him to see his friend again after so long. "Watson, get up. We have work to be doing." John groaned and sat up.  
"What time is it?"  
"Irrelevant." He snapped, and Watson sighed. He would never understand why Sherlock hated social norms so much, but for now he wouldn't question. It would only drain the little energy he had left.

They took a cab to the Adair estate and, once Watson had cleared up why he was there and who the man in the Deer-stalker with the collar of his coat upturned was (he said it was a colleague, not Sherlock) they were told they could take their time in the room where Ronald died. Sherlock couldn't help but snort a laugh. Take _time?_ Yeah right. Like he'd need more than a few seconds to see more than Watson could.

The room had been left exactly the same as it had been when Lestrade and Watson had first visited, the chair was still pulled out at an angle, which, Sherlock noted, looked as if someone had fallen out of it, and there was still money on the desk. The curtain was still pulled across the window, and the window itself was still open, making the fabric that attempted to cover it billow slightly. It was because of this movement that the genius noticed something – something he was almost certain his sidekick hadn't. "What size did you say the bullet was?" Sherlock mumbled, striding towards the curtain.

"I didn't," John replied. Sherlock shot him a look that said, _well tell me anyway, _and John sighed. "I thought it was probably a .45." His friend nodded sagely and ran his finger over the cream fabric. He felt an interruption. He had found what he expected to find.

In the fabric was a small tear, where a bullet had sliced through the curtain. Whoever had done this was a good shot, being able to hit his target regardless of not actually being able to see him properly, so this was no rookie, and on top of that, he would have gotten away with it if not for the curtain. "I thought as much!" He announced, triumphant. A wide, Cheshire grin spread across his face like wildfire.  
"What?" John countered. Sherlock spun on his heels, his eyes flashing bright. Watson felt his heart throw itself at his ribcage, protesting against that look. _Must be anticipation of something bad,_ he thought to himself.  
"The hole is too big for a .45 calibre bullet, meaning that the bullet did pass through but because the shot was from an angle, it was distorted. Now, where could the shot have been taken from?" He jeered, pulling the curtain back to reveal a high rise building. "And do you know who was staying there on the day of the death?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head.  
"A certain Colonel Sebastian Moran." His lips curled into a smirk as he saw the look of amazement on Watson's face.

They left afterwards, planning to tell Lestrade in the safety of 221b.

As their cab pulled up outside their shared home, Sherlock couldn't stop staring at the house across the street. "What is it?" John asked.  
"There's someone moving in across the street." John frowned.  
"And that means...?" Sherlock's eyes darted to the rear view mirror, noticing that the driver was taking more than normal interest in their conversation, but trying (and failing quite badly) to disguise the fact. Without a word, Sherlock climbed out of the cab and made his way into 221b. John paid the driver, then followed.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" He challenged, cocking a brow in annoyance and confusion.  
"The cab driver works for the man who moved in across the road."  
"And that man is?" John pried.  
"Sebastian Moran."

John's face fell. If the reason for Moran moving in across the street was what he thought it was... Sherlock would be the next victim. His heart lurched in his chest once more, smashing against his ribs harder than before. He'd already lost Sherlock once, and he didn't think his heart could take it again. He'd cried his fair share of tears – any more would be unseemly – and the mere idea of shedding more after he had seen Sherlock alive and well made him feel sick to the stomach. Mind was overruled by emotion. His heart's autopilot had been engaged. "No," he mumbled, taking two steps towards Sherlock.  
"No what?" He asked, turning his head to look back at the Doctor.

"I won't... I won't lose you again..." Sherlock let out a chuckle.  
"You speak as if there was something between the two of us."

His feet lead him to Sherlock's side, and his hands grabbed the sleeve of the detective's coat. "Well you've never denied it. You always put everyone right whenever you know they're wrong, and whenever someone says that we _make a cute couple _or words to that effect, you brush it off and say nothing!" John yelled, his grip tightening. Sherlock's eyes met his.

"That's because..." The words died in his mouth. Why didn't he ever say anything to the contrary? Did the short Doctor have a point? Was this something he refused to deny because subconsciously it was true?

Did Sherlock Holmes, Detective Extraordinaire think more of John Watson than he perhaps thought?

* * *

Sorry if it felt a bit short. I'm just so tired, but at the same time I really wanted to get this chapter finished, so I decided that staying up a little later than I would have liked was worth it. Don't forget to R&R, I love to hear what you have to say!

Also, there has been one vote for the lemon, so unless I'm inundated with people saying 'No lemons please!' or words to that effect, there will be one. I will mark it clearly though, so you know when it starts and ends. Thanks for reading!


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